59 Deep-Fry Tricks & Techniques (2/2)
Carlton Brock sighed, and said:
”You're right. Pity. Forget what I said about hanging him up by the balls, too. That's far too lenient. I'll have to think of something better than that.”
Brock's anger was caused by the news brought by John Gregson, captain of the Great Western. The historic ship had just returned from Ireland. It drew crowds as it progressed up the river to its berth. People had actually cheered as it went by, and Brock moved quickly to get the most out of it.
He drove down to the port even before the ship had docked, and informed the growing crowd that sending the ship had been his own initiative. He reminded everyone that he was watching over the nation from his highly elevated seat, and that they were to take no bullshit from the current U.S. president, Mark Penny, in any shape or form.
The crowd had been highly appreciative of his remarks, and Brock was in an excellent mood when he greeted John Gregson right after the captain left the ship. He congratulated Gregson on having gotten rid of the couriers in 'that Irish shithole', and instantly offered him the job of commanding the future U.S. fleet in the New World.
”You're the guy for the job, John,” Brock had said. ”All those admirals we got here can't operate without fifty different radars and a hundred staff to do all the actual work.”
Gregson had been very pleased. But then he handed Brock a resignation letter from Jerry Hard. Under intense questioning, he revealed that Brock's favorite bodyguard had betrayed him: he had signed onto a New World colony project with a shadowy British organization called The Empire. No, Gregson didn't know anything about The Empire apart from the rumor that true to its name, it had imperial ambitions. He also didn't know where Hard was now; the former bodyguard had left Galway even before the Great Western had sailed.
”There was some kind of a lord there, sir,” Gregson told Brock. ”I heard he was the owner of the local football club. They left together.”
”I'll rip both of them new assholes,” Brock had snarled. It was a sentiment that grew in strength as the day went on. And now, looking at Lea, Brock was hit with a new inspiration: he really should get one of those medieval torture books. He recalled there was this special procedure for frying people alive in a vat of boiling oil. It had been a real crowd pleaser in the Middle Ages, and if he remembered correctly the trick was to lower the victim into the oil very slowly. Otherwise, the fun was over all too soon.
Yes, that was much better than hacking at someone and getting blood all over one's clothes. Much more sophisticated.
”The only good Jerry Hard is a deep-fried Jerry Hard,” Carlton Brock said musingly, causing Lea to raise her eyebrows inquiringly. But he didn't satisfy her curiosity. Instead, he said:
”Lea, there's something I need you to do for me. Very delicate, very confidential. Are you up for something like that?”
”Of course, sir,” said Lea Panatella, and delicately pressed her right tit into Brock's chest.
”Good, good,” said Brock, equally delicately moving back. ”I need you to find out what Kirk Lander is up to. You know, that senator from California that I'd always liked. He refused my offer of a governor's post a while later, the asshole. But I still like the guy. Much more than that other senator from California, that What's-Her-Name.”
”Libby Placek.”
”Correct. I much prefer Kirk. So I want you to find out what he's up to. I remember you grew up in Sacramento, right? Get your network going over there. I want to offer this guy a job again, a better job. Governor of the entire California in the New World. And I won't have him turning me down again. If he does that, I'll have no choice but rub whatever's he's got going over there into the ground. And I don't like doing that kind of stuff to people. I'm a nice guy.”
”Of course.”
”So find out what he's up to, and let me know. Just be discreet.”
”I will, sir,” said Lea Panatella. She leaned forward for one last delicate tit-press before smiling and leaving.
Brock watched her go with a fond eye. What a girl! Perhaps he could ask her to look into this medieval deep-fry business? No, better not. It could offend her fine sensibilities.
But he would. Oh yes, he'd make sure to acquire deep knowledge of the whole procedure before he hunted down Jerry Hard.
”Fuck you, Jerry,” Brock muttered to himself. His stomach rumbled; it was time for dinner.
He would make sure to have a side dish of French fries.
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